TO&FQ: Book 3: Chapter 19 (RAW)

Chapter 19 - Declaration

When two men fight over a woman, it’s the fight they want, not the woman.

- Brendan Behan. 

As if it were any other day, he came upon Seraphina in a secluded corner of the Academy gardens, where she had been reading a slim volume of romantic verse. Startled and embarrassed, she snapped the book shut, her composure very much ruffled.

Hughes, it seemed, had caught a fever while he had gone to look in on his grandmother, who lived alone somewhere in the countryside. To her own surprise, Seraphina felt a wash of relief to see him hale and whole, her relief clouding over a niggling doubt she had about his account. She was, however, seized by an immense urge to strike him—an impulse she mastered with a great deal of will and fixed smile.

She would try to be pleasant.

“I suppose your circumstances excuse what might otherwise be considered quite rude… I am glad you are safe, at the very least,” Seraphina said airily.

Hughes’ heart soared that she spared him even that measure of concern. “And I am glad that you, Lady Seraphina, are safe. I hope nothing bad or untoward befell you during the Dragon attack—it was quite chaotic,” he said, his voice still weak. “Now that the King has declared it safe again, I’m much relieved.”

A young girl’s mood is as changeable as the sea, and Seraphina was no different. The memory of her time in Milani village rose unbidden, and her temper soured at once.

“You must forgive me. It is good you are in one piece, but there is something I must see to… I have just remembered,” she said primly, clutching the book of verse to her chest. With another fixed smile, she left him standing there, hurrying off at a pace just shy of a rather brisk walk.

***

Why was she—Seraphina de Sariens—running from Hughes, of all people? No, she was not running, she told herself, squeezing her eyes shut and giving her head a brisk shake—only to plow into something as she turned the corner. Or someone.

That someone, naturally, went flying.

“Your Majesty!” cried an irritatingly familiar voice.

Seraphina’s eyes flew open to find Crown Prince Velens sprawled at her feet. He sprang up, brushed himself off, and flashed her a roguish grin. “A good day to you, too, Seraphina.”

Beside him, the living Saint, Este Lize, simmered with very theatrical outrage.

Seraphina cut her off neatly. “My humblest apologies, Your Majesty,” she said, offering Velens a perfect curtsy.

“It’s quite all right, Seraphina. An accident, nothing more,” Velens said, both hands raised in easy surrender.

The blonde girl straightened, smoothing the crumple in her skirt with two controlled swipes. “If Your Majesty is unhurt, I shall take my leave.”

“You’re in quite the hurry,” Velens said lightly, as if teasing might wipe away the awkwardness of being bowled over. He extended an arm in a courtly half-offer, half-trap. “Walk with us?”

Us. Of course. Este Lize hovered at his elbow, silver hair like a fall of moonlight, eyes so pale a blue they were nearly grey. Too close, too close by far to her Velens. A living Saint, a darling of the Church, and a commoner who had the power to turn the Kingdom of Aranthia upside down. Today she wore piety like cheap perfume and smiled as if she only knew the good in the world. It was quite infuriating and tested the young noblewoman’s patience immensely. 

Seraphina dipped her chin. “Alas, I fear my time is not at my own disposal.”

“How curious,” Este murmured, a hand to her breast. “We had hoped to pray at the garden shrine. For the blessing of the Goddess, of course.” Her gaze never quite touched Seraphina, skimming past as if her presence were a thing to be stepped around.

An old, familiar prickle raced up Seraphina’s spine. The game’s event flags were stacking like kindling. Against all the odds, against the mixed sequence of things, a scripted event had found her. This was the Garden Confrontation, wasn’t it? Velens offers his arm to the Saint; the villainess makes an unwise remark; the male lead delivers a shining defense. Then the Affection Meter would jump by ten.

No. Not this time. Seraphina would not have it. She would cut this off now while she still had her dignity. Velens had served enough in his role.

“If His Majesty insists on parading creatures like this upon his arm,” Seraphina said sweetly, “then I shall be forced to… drastic measures. This is an insult to whatever feelings you have professed to me. And, an insult to my House.”

Velens’s smile faltered. “Creatures? Seraphina, mind your words.”

“Ah!” Este breathed, softly stricken. “Please, don’t scold her on my account. Lady Seraphina only wishes to protect propriety. You are here, fiancé, for the moment, at least. It is natural to feel… displaced.”

The girl was finally showing her claws.

“Este,” Velens said, turning to her with that gentle warmth the game had taught him, “you need not apologize. A true heart shines brighter than any title. Nobility without virtue is a husk. When I am King, I will go about making reforms to improve the lot of the common man.”

There it was. Line by line, like a script snapped into place. Seraphina could have mouthed the next few lines along with him. Of course, if he did “improve the lot of the common man,” he would risk angering the very nobles that sided with him now.

“The Saint’s station is given by the Goddess herself,” he continued, grey eyes steady on Seraphina. “To sneer at it is to sneer at the Heavens themselves. Birth is but a whim of fate. Merit, devotion—these are what I honor.”

Trigger: The Hero’s Declaration. CG unlocked. Seraphina’s jaw ached from clenching. She smiled instead, with too many teeth. “How noble. How very textbook and blasé. It is a shame that your devotion does not extend to someone that you love. But then again, I am but a mortal girl, and not a Living Saint, an embodiment of the Goddess’ will. Tell me, Velens, did you think long and hard on those words, or did you just come up with them now?”

Velens’s gaze cooled at the edge. “And how unkind of you. That is that, and this is this. Tell me, Seraphina, is your cruelty reserved only for people you think beneath you? And not just words, I must add, there are rumors about you from the Adventurers’ Guild.”

It was time to take the Crown Prince down a peg or two.

“Rumours? Cruel?” Seraphina laughed, a sound like glass tapped with a fingernail. “Where were you when members of your precious Guild assaulted me? When you learned of these rumors, did you seek to censure those who spread lies about me? And, if I were cruel, Prince Velens, I would ask whether your newfound love for all that is common extends to the kitchens. Perhaps you might take a scullery maid to the next ball, of course, for that is, it seems, the royal fashion. I am sure such a girl could keep the spit turning all night and everything well-basted.” 

The noblewoman covered her mouth as she laughed, enjoying how the Prince’s eyes almost popped out.

The green-eyed girl sneered. “Why, I might even offer my maid Miriam to you. She seems to attract the eyes of many a philanderer like yourself. I can imagine Milly being very good at making short work of stubborn stains and lingering guilt. But then again, she might be a bit too much even for your exotic tastes.”

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Do not make a spectacle of yourself, Seraphina.”

“Me?” She arched a brow. “I am not the one making spectacles, Your Majesty. Have you no idea what simply having her on your arms will do? Your actions threaten the stability of the Kingdom.”

Este stepped even closer to him—just so; the distance was measured, a painter’s thumb-width from impropriety. “Please, both of you,” she said, eyes shining with a false tremble as she shot Seraphina a knowing look. “I only want peace. If I have caused a rift, I will withdraw.”

“You will do no such thing,” Velens said, exactly as he had in the game. “I will not permit you to be bullied and denigrated in such a way. You yourself were with a commoner at the First Year’s Ball, were you not?”

Seraphina’s vision flared red at the edges. Bullied. She had done no such thing. “I only sought to mimic your royal example, Your Majesty,” she answered, voice thick with venom. “And yet,” Seraphina went on, voice a silken noose, “you take issue with my company. Hughes is a better man than you, Velens. A better man by far. But you sneer, do you not? You, Velens, are the bully… and, if you will pardon my words, the hypocrite.” 

Velens’s mouth thinned. “Hughes clings to you, Seraphina—trailing you like a shadow, expecting you to shield him. Can you not see he is using your name and station? He’s an opportunist, intent on climbing, and you… You blindly indulge him. If we are speaking of impropriety, look to your own habits.”

The words landed a bit too close to home before she realized that Velens was simply projecting his own situation. Still, heat flashed over her cheeks. “I do not need your unwanted counsel on such matters, Your Majesty.”

“Nor I yours,” he returned sharply.

“Please,” Este whispered again, not to soothe but to shine—how the sunlight caught in her lashes. “Mira… My Lady Seraphina, I admire your devotion to the Crown Prince. Truly. Perhaps… perhaps you could find it in your heart to be kind? The Crown Prince means nothing improper. It is only that my duties require guidance from the highest station, for the betterment of the realm. I know it's late, but I truly hope that we can be friends. When the Goddess’s work is done, I shall…”

The silver-haired girl lied as easily as she breathed. She positively reeked of deceit.

“You shall,” Seraphina cut in, “learn that to earn the ire of those above you is no small thing.” 

She turned to Velens fully, ignoring the twist in her stomach, ignoring how the garden had gone very quiet save for the sigh of leaves. “Hear me, Velens de Barbierri. Whether or not our engagement is yet stamped upon parchment, you and I both know the promise that was made. If you persist in humiliating me—and by extension House de Sariens—by dangling a common-born girl from your arm for the delight of the gossips, then I will do what you refuse to do.”

Velens’s eyes narrowed. “And what is that?”

“End this,” she said, her voice calm—clearer than she actually felt. “I hereby dissolve our engagement. I will inform my parents at once; they will, in turn, inform your father, the King. “It is not I who am unworthy of you; it is you who are unworthy of me. I deserve better than this. This constant humiliation. If you want her, you can have her.”

Sometimes, if you truly loved something, you had to learn to let it go. She winced at the internal cliché. 

Silence rang. Even the birds seemed to hold their breath. A great weight had been lifted. However, it looked like Seraphina would have to take the throne of Aranthia the hard way.

Este flinched, then turned her face half away, lashes veiling those pale eyes. Velens stared, as if she had reached out and struck him. Something like hurt flashed—and then was gone, replaced by the rigid line of a prince who had been given a public challenge.

“You do not mean that,” he said, voice suddenly very careful. “You must not.”

“Perhaps I do not,” she allowed, “but then again, perhaps I do. Yes, despite being a flighty and weak woman, I do believe I do. You would do well to remember that my father respects the wishes of his only daughter. Not to mention, I will receive my mother’s counsel on this matter. I will marry for love, Velens, not for the realm. Once upon a time, I thought that I could do both with you. It seems I have been too greedy with my simple desires.  You have pushed me too far, Your Majesty. Many will suffer because you do not know the meaning of devotion,” she warned, green eyes flashing with lethal promise.

There. Choice selected. Route diverged. If the game had a sound effect for breaking destiny, she would have heard it. She had done what the original Seraphina had never found the courage to do—until it was too late, that was. Better a clean break than a lingering mess.

Velens drew himself up, the sun catching in his blonde hair, turning it to a crown he had not yet earned. “Very well,” he said. “If that is your wish, I shall speak to Lord de Sariens and my father. Until then, you will not insult the Saint again in my presence.” 

His words, for some strange reason, felt forced to Seraphina’s ears. Most odd.

Seraphina inclined her head, all perfect poise and composed demeanor. “Then keep the ‘Saint’ who can not perform a simple healing miracle from my path,” she replied. “And keep to yours, my Prince.”

She turned, skirts whispering, and walked away without looking back. Behind the hedge, Hughes pressed a hand to his chest, as if the world had tilted under him. He had come running to make amends, to say something foolish and earnest. Anything to soften the Lady de Sariens’ mood.

Instead, he had listened to a promise shatter, and knew that nothing at the Academy, no in the Kigndom, would be simple again. Though it was late autumn, a rare flower opened in Hughes’s heart—hope.